bittersweet
by appleschan
Summary: bittersweet short stories.
1. muse

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme_: all

_Warning: _all

_Chapter word count:_ 592

_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.

_Chapter summary: _look, listen and don't feel.

**bittersweet**

i

_muse_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

Ichigo rarely goes out in daylight and hustle-bustle. Writers hate noise and disturbance. _Rephrase_. Some writers don't like loud people. And he is certainly one of them.

Good actors watch real people. He supposes the same thing could be said about writing. Usually, he only needs a spark, his imagination, then things would flow out naturally and he would be raking in creativity and ideas. But then, lately, things start to change, he couldn't think of anything. It's like a widespread headache –a blockage in a mental highway –_he's out of inspiration_.

He decides to chase that damn inspiration by coming out of his modest apartment to try and see the real world -unless he wants to be stuck writing some mainstream yet rehash plots like cheating husbands or revenge shit. In casual shorts, light blue shirt and glasses, he sets out to the outside world, the real world outside his red door –his conjured world. He let his techs stay in his room. He does not need any of them.

It's a warm midmorning in May. Pollens populate the warm air blowing in his face as he struggles to find a shaded area. Finally, he sits quietly in a bench across an open area –a garden coffee shop.

The sits occupants include a black haired short girl in a dress sitting alone, old couple, three men having an outdoor coffee meeting and a group of girl friends having lunch.

He observes the old couple. He could glean out their history, maybe. He could wonder endlessly about how they met, did their relationship survive some war?

He readies his notebook and pencil and within minutes, he was firing away with his observations and reality snapshots. But none hit his spark yet.

He only stops –ungratefully so- when he turns to look at the girl sitting alone. She's still there. It has been over two hours and she's still sitting alone. The sky signals a rain approaching and Ichigo wonders when will she leave.

He looks at her. The slight hue of blue and violet suits her yet it was somehow too big for her. Her hair is short, curling just below her chin and the way her palm rest beneath her chin or her fingers drum constantly tells him she's still patiently waiting for someone. Is it a friend? Or a family? Or a lover maybe? Can she tell a story?

Her eyes are the color of brightest violet he has ever seen. What's her story, he wonders.

Somehow, Ichigo stops writing and shifts in his bench to carefully observe her, his pencil beats on his journal paper; he is waiting for the right words. Yet he knows he shouldn't be waiting for it, he should be writing down everything his senses hit.

Another solid thirty minutes pass in silence and she's still alone, and so Ichigo decides to wait with her for another hour.

She stands, graceful and slow with her hand firmly pushing her off the table.

She stands, and Ichigo smirks openly at her diminutive height.

She stands, and Ichigo notices the ring on her finger and her small yet noticeable baby bump.

Finally, Ichigo sees another man approaching her with a bouquet of cliché red roses.

The man whispers _Rukia, _the man's voice is quiet but loud enough for Ichigo to hear. And the short pregnant woman –_Rukia_\- looks at the roses disbelievingly, folds her arm across her chest then makes a choking noise.

Ichigo hears her say an almost condescending husky tone, '_really_? _After all these years_? _Still_?'

Ichigo watches her carefully. She does not seem tired after all the waiting. On her face is a memorable smile.

That's it. Ichigo swallows hard, stands and walks away.

There's his muse.

**…o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's note**

thanks for reading

-_appleschan_


	2. blind

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme_: all

_Warning: _all

_Chapter word count:_ 408

_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.

_Chapter summary: _it's because he can't have her.

**bittersweet**

ii

_blind_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

He fucks another woman because he can't have her. It's not sexual addiction, the psychological and anxiety type. It's not dysfunctional hyper stylize erotic urges and acts for absolutely no fucking reason either. It's simply an addiction to her, _to Rukia_, but she's not his. So he fucks another woman while thinking about her. As simple as that.

Sometimes he wonders if she has any idea -the slightest idea about his sneaky advances. Each of his condescending snide towards her meant something, some sort of deep-seated lust that he can only express through verbal clashes with her. She's his best friend.

She often says he's too handsome for her –she comments offhandedly- on rare occasions when they joke about growing old alone. Ichigo almost takes her comments seriously, he likes it of course, coming from her pretty little mouth.

'_You think I'm attractive_?'

Rukia would nod as if he's stating that oxygen is breathable and that Earth is round.

'_Then sleep with me_.'

She smiles and politely declines, of course. Then there are comments about his model girlfriends being prettier than her. Then Ichigo would swallow his pathetic attempt and feel hopeless as his heart clenches.

He remembers he said to her on one drunken night, that he's okay with marrying her if nobody would.

He also asks her for a 'friendly' date lunch one day when he sees her sad and tired.

He sits with her all night long when she mourns her brother's death.

He's a fool too, a hard headed fool because he never stops sending signals. It's Rukia that is fucking blind.

"That's a handsome suit…" The woman –the brunette from last night- purrs in his ears. "Is it a wedding?"

"Yes." Ichigo glances at her and smiles.

"Can I come with you?" she asks, hugging his waist and pressing her bare breast in the crispness of his white shirt.

Somehow, in the morning light seems calming and pretty, a shitty insult to him.

"No." No woman can come with him.

He gently shrugs her off and gestures for her to return the bed, then he utters a simple commentary to her beauty when she's naked. The brunette model blushes. It was a comment for Rukia.

He stares back in the mirror and yeah, he looks pretty okay for a special day. His dress shirt and all that shit.

Rukia picks up his suit for her wedding. He's the best man for her wedding.

**…o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's note**

thanks for reading.

-_appleschan_


	3. kiss

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme_: all

_Warning: _all

_Chapter word count:_ 346

_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.

_Chapter summary: _it's just a kiss.

**bittersweet**

iii

_kiss_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

When he tilts her head to the side and deepens the kiss, he forces himself not to think. But he couldn't.

They weren't the affectionate type to kiss in front of a whole crowd. The crowd of 1940 and all. It surprises him –and her- when he impulsively grabs her from the unsuspecting crowd.

He pulls her arm and places it around his neck. He lifts her high and her legs wraps around his waist.

He does not know if it was minutes or seconds, but he's taking his very little time. He tries to tell her things he could not say out loud, things he's too embarrassed.

At this moment, he's passionate and selfish. The world could burn behind him.

Rukia breaks the kiss, and his eyes snap open.

He doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know what to say either. It's amazing –worthy of Shakespearean words.

Both of her hands are on both sides of his cheeks. She stares at him, her mouth opens slightly –maybe she could tell him now.

But before she could form the words, Ichigo forces her neck down once again.

He kisses her hard until she's breathless, until her knees become wobbly, until the feel becomes permanently burned in her mind.

Until she has no hope of erasing his existence.

_Is he scared_?

Ichigo unhooks her legs from his waist and slowly hoists her down.

"Try to come home." She says quietly.

He does not answer, not because he does not know what to tell her; he knows it too well.

Instead, he nods and turns his back. Everything he needs to tell her, all of it –he already did.

Ichigo heads off towards the other soldiers. He has an impending war to fight. He doubts his helmet can keep his head intact. He doubt if the bayonet in his hands can help him survive long enough to actually picture her face before his last breath. He doubts if he can come back home to her.

But he never doubts that the last kiss is always the best.

**…o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's note**

thanks for reading.

-_appleschan_


	4. touch

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.  
_Theme_: all  
_Warning: _all  
_Chapter word count:_ 253  
_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.  
_Chapter summary: _he lets her touch him.

**bittersweet**

iv

_touch_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

Two hours before dawn, she usually wakes him. He has work so doesn't really mind her ridiculous timing.

Sometimes, she's like a broken, screechy alarm clock that repeatedly hammers on his chest. Sometimes, she's like a wind with a mouth that nibbles on his ear, cheek and chest gently. Ichigo can't complain, she likes doing it to him.

Ichigo does not remember the scent she's wearing. But then, he does not remember the silk she's wearing either.

Ichigo turns slightly, and he could feel Rukia huffs indignantly.

"_Wake_ _up_."

He lets her wake him up. Because whether he likes or not, he would feel her on top of him, whispering things he could not comprehend while his consciousness shuffles between dream and reality.

On rare times, he would catch her small hand on his chest and lightly squeeze it. To let her know he's awake, then he would feel her shift weight and rest beside him quietly.

Sometimes he moans, sometimes he frowns. Her touches range from soft to rough –depends on her mood, maybe.

He's used to it, to her waking him up with her touch everyday for three years.

But he never opens his eyes. He does not open his eyes because he's not sure what he might see. He does not open his eyes because he's scared of what he might see in her face.

He does not open his eyes even if she clearly whispers his name and touches his face.

"_Ichigo_."

Because Rukia, in fact, died three years ago.

**…o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's notes**

thanks for reading.  
-_appleschan_


	5. status quo ante

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.  
_Theme_: all  
_Warning: _all  
_Chapter word count:_ 391  
_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.  
_Chapter summary: _classic friends with benefits and cheating.

**bittersweet**

v

_status quo ante_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

Shit happens when it's no longer about sex.

"_Why didn't we end together_?" He asks her.

She answers…she answers nothing.

The kisses are deeper, the thrusts are harder and the supposed physical-_only_ gratification acts hold more meaning than it should. It happens when there's a need for so-called _comfort_.

It happens when he's fresh from a fight with his girlfriend, it happens when she's disgruntled with her boss-boyfriend.

After sex, the silence between the two of them is at its loudest. Like a deafening roar from a hungry lion beside a sleeping gazelle, like the fucking pink, polka-dotted elephant in the room. Things they don't dare say but blatantly obvious. Things that eat them up inside and make them slowly question their life choices.

The urgency becomes unbelievable the more they prolong their meetings in their little escape world. The touches are more aggressive and there's this unexplained need when Ichigo grabs her and kisses her suddenly.

Rukia is sure Ichigo's eye aversions mean something when she _dared_ to ask him about it the last time.

Ichigo is sure Rukia does not cook for anybody else except for him.

Rukia is sure he means it when he calls out her name the last time they slept together.

Ichigo is sure he has more lingerie –that belongs to Rukia- than her boyfriend.

Rukia is sure she shreds more of his dress shirts than his girlfriend.

His boyish grin vanishes slowly when she initiates talks outside their little secret. Her playful snarky remarks become indifferent when he mentions his girlfriend. His brings up better accomplishments when she talks about her boyfriend's business deals.

Rukia notices it. Ichigo notices it. But they couldn't do something about it other than pathetically meet when no one is looking, they can't even say it to one another up front.

Because shit really happens when it's no longer about sex.

They cannot go that path. They both have no time for motherfucking life dramas and non-sense complications that can hurt other people. She makes it clear and he accepts it.

But they both know what they have is changing. He couldn't tell her that. She couldn't tell him that.

Underneath the bedcovers, he sneaks a hand and grasps for her small one. She does not object and interlace her fingers with his. This is their last time together.

_…_**o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's Note**  
i might consider a happy ending one shot.

thanks for reading.  
-_appleschan_


	6. carnival

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme_: all

_Warning: _all

_Chapter word count:_ 449

_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.

_Chapter summary: _play pretend.

**bittersweet**

vi

_carnival_

…**o0o…o0o…o0o…**

He loves her. He does not. He cares for her. He does not.

"Kaien,"

"Yes?" Ichigo answers and follows her voice. Rukia, his soon to be wife is calling him.

When she calls him, he knows she's expecting someone else. Some princely man of sorts, the rich prince who looks just like him yet absolutely different from him -_Ichigo_.

Ichigo the peasant. Ichigo the poor. Ichigo the worthless.

Ichigo who lives in a hut and tends to the filthy horses every day. Stupid, filthy Ichigo watches the rich prince with the same face as his eat breakfast and spend the rest of the day with his princess.

Poor and peasant Ichigo who can't give her pretty shiny jewels and wealth. Poor Ichigo who survives everyday by leftover, stale soup from the castle kitchen. Peasant Ichigo who can't afford decent clothes.

Pretty princess Rukia who looks nice and worthless Ichigo watches her silently every day and night. Poor and worthless Ichigo wishes that he can be her prince.

Princess Rukia is engaged to him, the rich prince. The rich prince who looks like Ichigo. The rich prince who stole her from him.

Poor Ichigo feels anger. Peasant Ichigo feels deprived. Worthless Ichigo feels sad.

That is why, on the last night of the carnival, poor Ichigo dons a stolen jester mask and dyes his hair black. Ichigo the peasant changes identity. He kills _him_, disposes his body and takes his place. Kaien is not for her.

…

"He has this fantasy world." The psychiatrist explains. "He believes he's a prince, a peasant turned prince to be precise."

Rukia looks around the mental facility. There's his family, his friends -people who may or may not blame her for his condition.

She takes silent, timid steps towards the four inch thick glass window which reflects her image clearly. There she is, pale, skinny and as deathly-looking as a ghost.

Behind the glass windows, Ichigo sits silently. He looks neither unruffled nor apprehensive. Ichigo is perfectly calm, and stares at things with awe, like a child.

Ichigo looks like an innocent child; Ichigo killed his cousin last night.

The psychiatrist speaks again. "He believes he's a prince and Shiba-san is his rival for the princess -_you_."

Ichigo -from inside the glass window- looks and walks towards her like he can see her, he stands directly in front of her, he puts his hand up where her hand is, and then he smiles gently at her.

Rukia's heart gives a terrible lurch.

…

_Poor, filthy Ichigo does not know he's lost in insanity. Poor, peasant Ichigo does not know what's real. Poor, worthless Ichigo distorts and disjoints everything because she left him._

…**o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's note**

i want to expand but i'm sleepy and i have work tomorrow.

ETA: thanks, Snow, i cant stop laughing.

thanks for reading. bye.

-_appleschan_

\


	7. playwright

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme_: all

_Warning: _all

_Chapter word count:_ 370

_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.

_Chapter summary: _things unsaid.

**bittersweet**

vii

_playwright_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

The lights are dim, the audiences are silent and the play –his play- nears its end, the grand end that his audiences hope for.

The world outside is chaotic, he thinks. So he confines himself in the ordered cabinet of his mind, that's what he prefers to think.

_Ordered_.

There's immediacy in his chest as he watches the last scene unfolds. He looks at the audience and he knows that he has done his job once again. The last scene grants the most important feeling; he does not do sad endings. The last line gives the greatest impression; everybody wants to be happy.

He's a genius, he has real talent. He has awards. He's acclaimed.

_Wrecked_.

Ironic it is that he writes the happiest scenes in his saddest moments. He creates the happiest acts he could think of without giving up class and succumbing to the anticlimactic.

He wrote his best work when she told him she found someone to be with.

So he inserts, subliminally, things he wants to tell her, things he bottles up inside because he's _just_ a friend. He carefully crafts his works for her, around her, about her –the actress that plays his heroines, his strong and selfless heroines. .

He constructs characters with personalities that depict his emotions, scarily expressive for a person with a no-nonsense exterior.

Hoping that maybe, she might see something in her roles and look at him and see him differently. So he waits, he hopes for that one moment to happen. But then, maybe never.

Ichigo stands comfortably in the back, not at a theater box but near the exit, where he can't see her kiss the leading actor.

This is the final moment –a minute before curtain closure. And he recites in his head the last line he wrote for her character -_Rukia's_ role.

'_Do not worry, I will stay with you always.'_

He writes plays for her. He writes plays for her because he can't have her in real life, he lives his fantasy with her by writing plays for her.

He writes it because he's weak and it's the only thing he can do.

And in the end, he never gets to give her an after performance rose bouquet.

**…o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's Note**

i'll stop torturing him soon.

thanks for reading.

-_appleschan_


	8. blank

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme_: all

_Warning: _all

_Chapter word count:_ 560

_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.

_Chapter summary: _just wait

**bittersweet**

VIII

_blank_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

Ichigo dislikes Ishida's antics. Those glasses and pompous attitude that annoys him to no end -yet he managed to put up with him for years during Med School. Ishida made Rukia's dress, and she thinks it's a lifelong debt to him so Ichigo has no choice but to put up with Ishida and his shit -_every time_. And she really likes his creations.

Ishida is a doctor, a designer and a moron. And seeing him sit beside him quietly -but oozing with icy silent authority- like he usually does reminds him of their internship hours when Ishida would, like a real pompous brat, brutally _correct_ his answers every time and in front everybody.

Ichigo is so used to hearing his smug voice that he wonders why he hasn't heard a word from him since he arrived eight hours ago.

There's Inoue, the girl that likes him -_still_. Inoue, who alternates between crying and smiling at the thought of him, confuses him -still- to no end. But he appreciates her effort and -to some degree- her feelings for him, but it's _not_ her.

Chad went home hours ago. Ichigo sat with him all night. They have a silent understanding.

Then there's Rukia. She's ushering the delivery boys where to put the flowers. She occasionally looks in his direction, he looks back at her directly, then she looks away again. He thinks she's still mad because just a week before, he carelessly slip the _tiny _Kurosaki's arrival to their family and friends -without her. Because he's fucking excited to be a father. He understands why she's mad and she's pretty fucking stoked herself when they got the news. They would become parents.

Then Ichigo hears his father gleefully laugh. "Yes! It's his new name!" Isshin booms, pointing to a paper that has a name written in kanji.

He should beat his father. He should really beat his father. Who the fuck buys an obsolete name for 2 million yen?

But still. It's a new name.

Rukia sits beside him. He does not hold her hand because really, what comfort would that do?

-ah fuck! He forgot! He forgot to shut the window to their bedroom or throw away the used coffee filters and water their lone stupid real plant inside the house. When they got married, he and Rukia divided stuff to do, he got the easier ones. She'd be fucking pissed if once she sees it.

Then like shit hitting the fan continuously, he suddenly remembers the dinner he reserved days ago got canceled, and he forgot to tell Rukia. But then, she probably figured it out.

Rukia looks around them, to the pretty arrangement for him, her head tilting side to side and her eyebrows in constant frown, he knows she's trying to catch one out of place detail. But he thinks, what fucking waste of time.

Rukia finally stops looking around and he looks at his wife, she is fighting back her emotions -like she always does. So he sat there, quiet as well. What can he do? He couldn't tell her comforting words -she'll scoff at him for even attempting to be romantic, he isn't.

But he badly wants to hold her hand but he couldn't. It fucking sucks. He just has to wait.

They will burn him, and he won't feel anything.

He realizes -with so much annoyance- that he does not like watching his own funeral.

**…o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's note**

what a 15-minute morning coffee break resulted in. but i don't think i'm fully awake yet. 10:17 am.

thanks for reading.

-_appleschan_


	9. sundown

_Disclaimer:_I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme_: all

_Warning:_all

_Chapter word count:_ 598

_General summary:_string of bittersweet short one-shots.

_Chapter summary:_gone. burned.

_*don't be too suspicious_

**bittersweet**

ix

_sundown_

**…o0o…o0o…o0o…**

It's his divorce day. That's it. Gone. Burned. Right in the fucking dumpster.

She thinks it's because he's too jealous, aggressive and possessive -like some villain in a goddamn TV show.

He's a man. He guards what's his. She is his.

Unfortunately, he does it every time, displays it to anyone, and _always_ to the extreme.

She thinks its choking her, he thinks he's doing her a favor. She thinks it's pathological, he thinks she's over reacting.

There's a common hell hole all happily married man and woman can fall into –the councilor says. Bullshit he says –he thinks they're indestructible, Rukia and him. _Not_.

It's spinning, spinning, spinning, _everything is_.

When he finally sees their crumbling life, that and more often her cheek is red and his hand has a matching red hue, that she cries more than she laughs, that he forces her to eat with him, he realizes she's right, he's out of control.

So he quits. He goes away voluntarily.

He'll come back _proper_, he tells himself.

Months in rehabilitation forced him to keep his temper and thoughts always checked, to keep his eyes off psychological triggers.

Pathological. Psychological. Whatever the fuck.

So he looks at the sundown and appreciate its motherfucking beauty every time he's close to losing _it_. The pretty thing framed in tattered wood, its heated beams filtering through the glass and hitting him in the face, disabling his vision for a moment. Yeah. That shit is pretty. Yeah. That shit is pretty. Fucking inspiring. Fucking calming.

But the judge rules out his unfit to go back to her, that he's a danger to her.

Doctors and nurses and psychologists can't do shit about him.

He couldn't move in this shabby wooden seat –actually, he does not know why he even came. It's the judge's decision –not his. Because he wouldn't _ever_ let go of her.

Now he sounds like a damn sap.

He stays still -Ichigo stays still, seating and looking out the window. His divorce proceeding continues.

He looks angry. But he isn't really angry. Because he's more human right now and less of the aggressive male he is –_he's sad_. Sad like a boy who lost his first beloved puppy in a car crash, sad like a girl who lost her father in a war.

He ruined his marriage. He fucking ruined his marriage.

Rukia gets up from her seat and signs the papers. _Well, damn._ It's his turn to sign. He forces himself to look away from the window and to her.

No one looks at him, but her. She looks at him straight and hard and penetrating. She's beautiful. For one wild moment, he thinks, what if he kiss her right now? Cancel all these shit? That he's okay now? Tell her that the rehab fucking worked? That he's really, really okay? Get back to her and start again-she hands him the pen. His heart skips a beat or stops -he doesn't care what.

There's no fucking chance.

He takes the pen and signs. The first stroke is a little shaky, he tries hard not to lose it at the last stroke. That's it. Done. Burned. Right in the fucking dumpster.

He tries not to speak when the judge asks him a petty question he does not understand. He nods his head instead, afraid his voice might break or sound girly.

He puts the pen down and sits back down to his previous spot. He looks out the window again. He's close to crying. Fuck.

He hears someone says a stiff 'thank you' then the shuffling of footsteps, minutes pass and he thinks they are gone but out of the corner of his eyes, he notices Rukia is still in the room, watching him. The sundown is pretty. He looks away. The sundown is pretty. Could he talk to her one last time? But the sundown is really fucking pretty, he must not look away. Just one word, maybe a simple _sorry_-then he hears the doors close. She's gone.

He closes his eyes, slumps in defeat and thinks, that's a really beautiful sundown.

Silences annihilates. Reality descends.

Now what?

**…o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's Note**

thanks for reading.

-_appleschan_

*i never thought this day would come, i'm tired of writing. this is why I'm writing bittersweet.


	10. brightside

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Theme_: all

_Warning: _all

_Chapter word count:_ 422

_General summary: _string of unrelated bittersweet short one-shots.

_Chapter summary: no hatred, no regrets._

**bittersweet**

x

_brightside_

…**o0o…o0o…o0o…**

The aching pain of Arthritis, he thinks, never felt this welcoming. That, and the thick clouds of blurred vision -a benefit, he supposes, because he wouldn't be forced to see kids these days act so obscene. These two, and the relaxing dull lull of his slow, pitiful, weak heart between his black-punctured, wheezing lungs feel very pleasant. His doctors think otherwise.

He's dying. _He coughs._ Very, very good. _He coughs again_. At last.

He wonders where his stupid nurses could be. He escaped his retirement home for the nth time. For an old man of 75, his reflexes are great. He could laugh, really loud -in fact.

He sits in the oldest bench in the park, where the winds sway cautiously and hum delicately, where little children run around stomping his leather-clad feet, where he likes to sit around the whole day waiting eagerly for something so naturally feared and detested -death.

He does not –however- resent it. He isn't scared. Old Ichigo believes he isn't scared of death. He welcomes it.

Nothing serious, nothing bad, no angst, no hatred, no regrets for the life lived, just simply wanting to rest, to go where Rukia went first, to follow her everywhere.

Rukia got to rest first, when the doctor said "There's no cure." ten years ago, on a winter night. They said goodbye to each other. Peacefully. Then he thanked her, she thanked him and he never left her deathbed.

He also told her, never wander off too much, he might not be able to find her because of her height.

She said she wanted to die asleep. So he counted the sheep with her, he counted the last seconds with her.

And in the end, when her lips parted for her final smile, he never felt more accomplished. He knew it's the very reason of his existence.

He still has it, the ability to think clearly, to be bothered little by useless outside commotions. So he relaxes carelessly, stretching his arms and reclining on the hard bench. He cares not for people thinking; what an old jerk hogging the entire bench.

it's probably afternoon because he feels the warm breeze, not scorching or disturbingly irritating like the summer heat. It's calming, _just_ calming.

He dreams of being with her countless times already –he can't wait to be young again.

He closes his eyes.

When he finally meets Death, whose face is probably marred by its hideous reputation, he'll bow respectfully. Then he'll turn around and look for Rukia

just as he promised.

He hopes the day is today. He could die now. Maybe right now -or a little bit later.

**…o0O0o…**

_the end_

**Author's Note**

i should complain about trying to keep writing but ends up being tired more often, because this weekend, i suddenly got time for fandom activities, but i used it to sleep instead. So now, it's sunday night, i'm wide awake and it's monday tomorrow and i only accomplished this and tumblr lazy scrolling. but i guess i'll sleep more. i like sleep.

and i also kinda like present tense -but i should probably say it doesn't like me.

thanks for reading.  
-_appleschan_

_*__Coldplay's Yellow –to date- never failed as my writing jump starter.__ majestic song. _

_*i have decided pheasants are fantastical creatures, i shall keep them in reserve because of said reason. no pheasant for you, snow. cheerio._


	11. fortune teller

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Warning: _all_._

_Theme: _all_._

**bittersweet**

XI. fortune teller

_appleschan_

* * *

The morning**  
**

Ichigo wakes up early, forgets breakfast, and goes to school.

He walks, not in a hurried manner, but listless, slow, and observant.

Every day he takes this route, the longer one, the one where he needs to literally hike to go to school. He travels the road along unoccupied lots and trees, zigzagging up, down, and side towards his school.

There, he finds something his regular walks to school deny him; silence.

The midday

Ichigo listens to class, gets up from his seat and eats lunch with Chad.

Ichigo thinks it's too early for flowers to bloom. Cherry Blossoms do not fall at this time of the year. Irksome it is that some stupid petals found their way up and landed on his bento.

Mizuiro said something to him, but he does not hear him clearly and makes no effort to ask.

On the way up, he hears and sees the ghost from the third floor laboratory room 6. A boy, obviously. Ichigo actually thinks he's a goofy ghost. He presses his face on the lab glass door when girls pass by but glares at every boy like he wants to haunt their dreams. The ghost, maybe, followed the group of girls eating lunch beside them. Ichigo thinks he might have laughed.

The midnight.

Ichigo goes home, does his homework and sleeps.

He decides, it's too inconvenient to sleep on his left side, so he rolls on the right side. Then he rolls again, and again, and again, and then he finally settles on a flat position. Not good, so he rolls again, and again, and again. His bed feels like some flat, cheap mattress -maybe it's really a flat, cheap mattress. Maybe, he should save up for a better one. Or wrestle his father into giving him a proper one.

It's too hot, and his shirt isn't exactly cool either. No choice. He leans on his headstand. There isn't too much space in his room, and their whole house actually. If he passes the entrance exam, he'll become a doctor and work in a large hospital. Maybe he'll earn big. Big. Then buy a bigger house. His father is a talented doctor, but he opted for a small town service. Maybe he won't be like him, or maybe he will.

It's 2 am, and the murdered kid's ghost who haunts the street light near his home is probably sobbing again. Ichigo debates whether he should go or not. For what? He could not help them anyway. But maybe, he'll stay and talk a little longer tomorrow after school. Then he'll talk to the ghost again the day after tomorrow to try and sooth her because he has nothing better to do. And if it does not work, he'll try again the next day. And the next day. And the next.

* * *

**The End**

excuse this, it's not exactly bs.

stream of consciousness, not the full plunging one, just somewhat. i hope it's boring, melancholic and empty. it's the idea. *_me -disappears laughing_*

chapter summary: life which he never met her.


	12. prostemo 1

introspective. ooc. **rewritten**. language. **long (3 parts)**. i don't own bleach and the references. **nonlinear** **(but guided)**

huge, huge insight from spike jonze (her) and jim jarmusch (only lovers left alive) and 60's sci-fi shows from the u.s.

warning: the last time i worked on a similarly thousand-word-in-a-chapter story was in 2013 and i played with timelines and had an i/r death-fest. go figure. but i'm kinder now. (✿◠‿◠)

**bittersweet**

xii. prostemo. part one.

_appleschan_

* * *

**0 – start at the middle (27)**

Ichigo plans to marry, of course, though the idea is still entirely foreign to him and he's certainly not the type to actively seek relationship. Ichigo feels that it's part of the normal course of things just as waking up and going to school and graduating and finding a job and getting promoted and marrying and having children and having success and building fortune and being happy and then dying.

There's something blithely accurate about watching the sunrise, 7:35 this morning –_now_, a huge, blazing yellow ball muddled by thin gray clouds and murky screens of pollution and framed by skyscrapers: it's definitely _not_ stirring. But then, every morning is different_,_ and so the morning for tomorrow could be different, perhaps softer and lighthearted, there is always that chance, he thinks in German and Spanish and English and Japanese, languages from countries he knew what the sunrise looked like.

Ichigo studied abroad, because of a generous scholarship from the behest of a giant tech industry back in his home country –charity, they claimed, and a little bit of luck. But Ichigo never needed charity. He grew up in a middle-class family comprised of his two sisters, a doctor for a father, and housewife mother –an entirely self-sufficient household. Even without that little bit of luck, he would still manage to get a stable job and a house and proceed with the normal course of life, though less grand than the one he has now, but it's fine because Ichigo is never really a man of materialism. He got into a public high school, offered to continue studies abroad, took it and graduated with honors and became an intern, after two years, given a corner, ceiling-to-floor windowed office –the most common kind of success story for an average person. Ichigo is an average person with the same success story: living in his 59th floor, corner room that is as posh and as minimalist and as modern as any executive would have; two-color scheme: black and white furniture and paint, with red accents.

But Ichigo is an average person with the same success story living in a more advanced time: where the colors of the mind are the brightest and _everything_ is available in small, sleek digital boxes, where places are high rise and contemporary architects are loved dearly for their modern designs that signal to people: we are finally moving forward, where even the tiniest, smallest problems are getting the best solutions and grace means social pleasantries and everything seems to be at the height of minimalistic artdom. The irony though is that society still unconsciously defines how a person should live: the normal course of things.

Ichigo, positively-influenced and refined and well-dressed, has most of the primary events checked in the normal course of things. Indeed, some things are better in theory _than_ in practice, Ichigo plans to marry and have kids and build fortune, the 27-year old Ichigo though, despite being a dapper, still possesses the unease of his 14-year old self, and still hides behind his scowl.

But then again, he lives in a time where there is solution to every problem and liberation of ideas _literally_ means liberation of ideas and the generation's skills are able to match this liberation, there is a world-wide matchmaking program that pairs couple on a neurological level, an algorithm that finds a person anywhere in the world and logically analyzes the traits and likes and memories, matching the personalities into perfection; a being to a being, perfectly-matched.

The business profit to this, Ichigo thinks, is the primary driver of the program creation. It comes, of course, with an extremely high cost and is exclusive to few –presently, and this includes Ichigo. The exclusivity comes from the program's endpoint offer in case of failure, a clean break-up, from physical to mental to emotional, all traces will be gone; the program works _only_ for the buyer, the other side –the found match- doesn't know anything, it is up for the buyer to pursue the other person or not.

_But_, Ichigo supposes, this is part of the normal course of things, it doesn't really matter how the program was created or what it will do, the point is, the program has a vital function and is entirely convenient.

And so he has a flight back to his home country in a few hours, to meet his program compatible match.

The sunrise back home though, he hopes, is exactly how he remembered it to be.

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* * *

**(-) 4745 days (14)**

Ichigo isn't sure why he lets this Kuchiki girl tow him around town one afternoon after class under a weather the cross between springtime and summertime.

Her small hand wrapped around his snugly as she leads him left, left again then right then another right then to a straight path, darting in between people, in between town alleys and shops seamlessly.

Ichigo doesn't complain though (at least, not yet). But he's still confused so he struggles to look behind him.

"Don't look! You'll get their attention," she snaps then looks at him behind her shoulder and glares squarely at him: he glimpses something familiar, something back last New Year, something that twinkles in the rain, something violet or something blue; her eyes shine like a purple tulip lit by the morning sun.

But her voice is rough. Like a boy's.

He struggles to look behind him again, ignoring her warning. He sees no one particularly off, just a muddle of normal-looking people as they turn another alley.

Then he feels a harsh tug, pulling from the direction of the girl.

"Wha-t?"

"I said don't look!" She hisses and pulls him harder, urges him to walk faster.

"Wha-t?" He repeats dumbly, looking at her –or at the back of her head.

"Sssh!"

Soon, her hurried steps turn into a full run and Ichigo is trying to keep up with her, his hand still in hers.

He sees her face once (close-up), then hundred times amongst the crowd in the high school he attends, he knows who she is –a bright light amongst his dim-faced schoolmates, extremely wealthy and ridiculously smart, the class president _and_ the student council president –everything easily described in superlatives. On a more physical note, she is strikingly pretty but annoyingly short. Ichigo likes to think he doesn't care much. After all, he's a cool and detached guy, and cool guys don't become cool by admiring others, and this girl is a celebrity in his school and he never really likes celebrities (and their fakeness) and so he takes into treating her like one: afar and aloof and never a second glance; he'd be above his idiot schoolmates.

But life, though, has a different way. Bell ringing and students milling and school gates and he somehow ended up in her grasp, suddenly running halfway around town.

She's short and petite. She wears his school's uniform, her grey skirt flailing inoffensively against the gentle breeze. Her hair is somewhat shorter, and shiny, so shiny it threw off the warm afternoon sun rays easily. The tree leaves leave shades on her form, in light brown, in caramel, in tan –he thinks it's peculiar.

Her small hand that roughly covers only three of his fingers tightens and she looks at him again behind her shoulder.

His breath hitches sudden and hard, his heart skips a vital beat when she smirks at him, "I know you, you are the new-year cards delivery guy."

He's a high-school student. Boy. Fourteen years old.

She's a year older than him. Girl. Fifteen years old.

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* * *

**(+) 1 day (27)**

It's New Year tonight in Tokyo and the stars are particularly vivid and the air is very cold and smells like flowers. Ichigo just remembered, watching the people in the shrine move about, the women in their pretty kimonos, the men in more or less formal clothes –_ah_, tonight also means hatsumode or the first visit to the shrine for the New Year.

Ichigo doesn't know what to feel about that; he barely remembers his childhood and its occasions, but he knows the old street where his family used to live: surrounded by greenery and overlooking the town, his old high school, some of his old friends and teachers, apart from all these, the rest are murky and blurred.

But he did not come here to revisit them, childhood and teen-age are distant pasts, events that ran their course; he's here to go along with the normal course of things, to move forward.

_In here_, he finds his match –through all the information about him that a computer analyzed and deemed perfect for him. He finds her an hour after midnight, when most people start to go home after having prayed at one of the smallest shrines.

_She_ stands alone in front of the shrine, her hands together, her eyes closed, her head slightly bowed –praying. Black-haired and petite. She dresses well and neat and devoid of lavishness, whimsical in a white furisode and white butterfly pin on her hair –up in a messy bun and a lone bang in-between her eyes.

With only two small paper lamps beside her and fireflies around, she stands radiant.

Ichigo wears a perfectly-fitted black suit and tie, and a deep red scarf wrapped around his neck, his bright orange hair long enough to reach his nape, certainly a sight unmissed by most for he's very tall and striking. He stands meters from her, casually looking over but not being entirely stalker-ish.

She's seemingly young, _no_ \- Ichigo corrects himself, she's too young, too pretty –he's certain she's halfway in her teens and almost half his age. Too young, a girl like that couldn't be his program compatible match –Ichigo almost turns away.

But he doesn't, because there's something almost old about her, something peculiar, something he already knows.

The girl finishes her praying, bows, and prepares to leave. She turns to his direction; Ichigo stays, a hand in his pocket. She meets his eyes, lingers a bit and offers a polite, small smile and a low bow then turns away and passes him; Ichigo nods.

"Miss?" He starts, still having a perfect Japanese accent, with a voice a little low, it's impolite to speak in loud, brash tones. When she passes him, he turns and asks casually "Can you tell me your name?"

There's something about her that reminds him of: when a child first sees a shooting star; violin and spring flowers; how the sun glows during the first winter morning; running around town one afternoon; sharing an umbrella during a rain; a purple tulip lit by the morning sun.

The girl stops walking, there is a brief silence, then she turns back and bows lightly again, "My name is Rukia."

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* * *

**(+) 4380 days (39)**

_So, what now_? He thinks –_wonders_. He's thirty-nine and dying already.

There is something to look forward to when we die, the religious often say. But he's not. We will go and blend into space and become stardust, the scientifics say. But he's not. He has no existing body of belief, no heaven, no nirvana, no Polaris, he belongs to no faith, prays to no one, confesses to no one. All his human burdens kept within him, he thinks they're unnecessary things anyone else besides him should not bother with. He makes no effort to resolve adversaries he still has. After all, a worldly problem would die with its holder, cease to exist. It means nothing in the end.

Hence the question: _so, what now?_

Ichigo has been labeled as the most pessimistic of all the patients in the floor. _Because_: patient –a word too deceiving. He's not sick. He's dying. Dying from shortened life expectancy for humans, dying from all the consequences of invented shit decades ago that claimed to improve life, dying because most of the stuff he's been eating are artificial, dying, dying, because when shit is happening all around him and life is a fucking bitch to him and he finds no meaning in everything, what else is there for him do?

Death could finally visit today, Ichigo would want _it_, welcome it even –but that's not probable, life has a way of fucking up with his wants, drawing him out until he's beaten, then fuck with him more. Life gives him chaos when he wants silence; cure instead of poison, and indeed life once again did, because _today_, he gets a visitor, but it's _not death_, it's a teenage girl.

"Who is she? Your daughter? Friend's daughter? Sister's daughter? Adopted daughter? _Your daughter?_ You don't really look like her." Some annoyingly harpy voice says –his nurse.

"You're daughter? You have a wife? A gf?"

Ichigo glares at his flamboyant nurse, a killer of sort. "I…I-mean, is she your daughter?"

Ichigo forces himself to speak, "no, I don't know, and get out," he tries to tell the nurse sharply, but it's pathetically raspy and weak and depressed.

"Fine! Fine! I'd just like to ask if you know her 'cause you know, security and the likes," the nurse takes a deep breath, shifts his black-rimmed glasses and continues, "you know, we don't really know much about you! And we kinda need info, so a little help here please! Oh and while we're on the topic, can you just answer this one, do you have a wife or someone, a gf maybe? Me thinks _you_ can't seriously be single! You're pretty hunky and hot for your age, do you know that? Ah damn, _weeell_, _you are_ hunky and hot. Do you even age? But you're rude to everybody! I mean, It's not very pretty, but damn, hot rude, yes, hot mean, yes, hot mess, oh yes! Crazy sexy and shit. So, huh, well?"

"_Stop_," Ichigo turns, a glare in place, just as thug-like as before (though not as mean as he would normally do because this nurse –despite flamboyance- means well and brings him fresh orange juice on Sundays) and Ichigo adds, "_please_."

"K, k," the nurse answers, "So, uh, ya wanna see her?"

"_No_," Ichigo deadpans.

"Oh-kay," then the nurse turns his back on him.

Ichigo is just about to turn and lie down again when the same nurse shouts something, "hey sweetheart, you can come in!"

_What kind of shitty place is this?_ Ichigo frowns irritably and prepares to berate the flamboyant nurse but finds him gone, instead, a teenage girl with short black hair and purple eyes has taken his place.

Confused, "who are you?" Ichigo barks at her, unmindful of manners.

The girl blinks twice, a frown forming on her face.

"You're not my daughter, are you?" he asks as he regards the girl. She's a teenager, wearing a grey high school uniform he barely recognizes. He guesses she's fifteen years of age…fuck, what was he doing fifteen years ago? She couldn't be his daughter, could she?

"Sorry kid, I don't know your mother, I'm pretty sure I never fucked a brunette before," he says hoarsely, _sorry kid._ He did fuck brunettes before.

She shakes her head. And Ichigo visibly relaxes, shoulders slump again.

It is winter, it is almost over but the cold still frosts his windows and creates mist everywhere, and the silver brilliance has seeped into his room, shedding unwanted light onto his room.

Ichigo is significantly older, Rukia notes. Seemingly more robust, posture more defined yet he's still slim and lanky. There are no traces of his youthful boyhood at 14, he lost that vigor and poise he had when he was 27, what remained is the visage of a very tired and very bitter man.

Rukia smiles sadly; the sun rises, the sun sets.

Ichigo thinks he remembers the young girl's smile –slight and careful and her eyes are lit up and looking pointedly at him.

The girl introduces herself; her voice is rough, like a boy's, "I'm Rukia."

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* * *

**(-) 4749 days (14)**

It took months and months before Ichigo can tolerate the Kuchiki girl's early-morning presence in the school grounds:

The first was: Ichigo finds the Kuchiki girl seated on one of the stone grey benches lining their school entrance. It's 6:00 am, super freaking early even for top-notch students to go to school. Ichigo looks around, her suit-and-tie-and-sunglasses-wearing bodyguards aren't around and so are her Kuchiki-approved chaperone luxury car and its convoys.

The girl is alone though, except for her books and notes in which several are open at the same time and she –he guesses- speeds read all of them. Fucking weird.

Ichigo keeps himself hidden in the large stone gates of his school, peeking at her. He debates on whether to march inside and go about his business (which is to run in the school field) or not. Most likely not. He cannot be anywhere near the Kuchiki girl. At all times. Bad, _bad_ for reputation. And so he thinks irritably, why can't she just go to some super elite private school along with her kind?

The second was: it's raining so, so bad. Again, he finds the Kuchiki girl sitting alone at the edge of the grey bench nearest to him, she has an umbrella with her (something that he doesn't have, he already got out of his house when the downpour began) leaving her and the spot beside her rain-free. This time, though, she isn't reading something, her eyes are somewhere else. Ichigo stares at the spot and puts up his –practically useless- hood jacket and leans against the stone gates (his bag is waterproofed anyway).

There's a full minute of horrible down pour and Ichigo freezing in his clothes and why won't the rain just stop?

"Oi! You there! You can seat beside me!" The Kuchiki girl calls, probably at him –no one is still around except the two of them. He ignores her of course.

"I mean it!" she tries again. Ichigo holds his arm up, as if to wave her away, "I mean it, thug-looking schoolmate!" she yells.

_Schoolmate_, Ichigo thinks surly, _tch_, she's too annoying, what a goody-goody. (he doesn't mind the thug comment though, it's kind of badass coming from the student council president herself)

There's something to be said about a teenage boy's determination to look cool and detached and nonchalant. Rukia gets up from her bench, leaving her spot drenched, and makes her way to where the hooded tall boy stands and offers him the other side of her umbrella.

"Okay, at least make room."

Ichigo looks at her, a careful glance and a calculated tilt of his head (for having that "being cool" effect), but she is not looking at him but ahead –at the road in front of them, and he's sure she doesn't know who he is, but then, he's pretty much sure she doesn't know him even without the hood and all.

But nevertheless, he scoots a little to the side, clearing a place for her and her umbrella, quietly grateful. And she shields both of them against the downpour, both settle on quietly watching the grey road and wet pavements and the town people. Ichigo wonders about her.

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* * *

**(+)1 day (27)**

Sometime between 3 am and 4 am at the shrine, when most people had gone out, when the lights around the place are dimmed, and when the fireworks are no more, Ichigo and Rukia found an empty wooden bench in between a tree and a post lamp, overlooking the town.

They are quiet for a long time, sitting on the bench, watching the town lights and house lights below go off one by one. Ichigo yawns, mentions something about people resting and sleeping and dreaming.

"I dream," Rukia says suddenly, her voice quiet and solemn, mostly to herself –like a self-affirmation, "I _can_ dream."

Ichigo yawns again, "What?"

"Dreams," she says again to emphasize. Like saying it over and over and over again fills its absence, "or I like to think I can dream."

Ichigo doesn't know what to answer her, that's an odd thing to say.

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* * *

**(+) 4380 days (39)**

The Kuchiki manor had been partially abandoned a decade before –the entirety of the clan are living elsewhere; this was the former main residence. Only her and few household assistants remain to keep the place impeccably tidy.

Rukia understands tradition –remembers tradition.

The Kuchikis are always unforgiving when it comes to tradition, and her time with them in the past had been rather challenging. Even so, they _were_ her family and respect and politeness had been _bred_ to her. And more so, this is not a simple request. Though her Nii-sama never answers, she still talks to him and asks for his permission, and it is tradition in the family to seek an advice or permission from an older authority.

Rukia, as she remembers the teachings of the clan's ladies, seats properly in front of her brother's memorial. She wore well and spoke in a hush tone, "I have a request, Nii-sama."

Rukia feels (thinks she's) nervous. She has never been this nervous since she set foot in that high-school building, in that shrine, in that hospital room –all for the first time.

Humans have been walking to their deaths since they were born. The sun rises, the sun sets, the trees grow, the flowers bloom, there is normalcy in death, normalcy in grief and sorrow, and for some, there is joy in passing away. Rukia, for her part, has been living normally for a long time, and she sees no reason why should she be any different; after all, there is _heart_ and there is _normalcy_ in her as all the other humans.

_A human said every morning is different-_

Bowing deeply, Rukia tells her brother's memorial, "I have been in overdrive for a very long time; I ask for your permission to finally sleep when he dies."

_-I wish to wake up differently one day, truly feeling the sun on my skin. _

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_Rukia_ is a high-end, autonomic _marionette_. Android with a consciousness. Artificially intelligent; runs on wires and chips and digital programs. Self-sustaining, self-programming, and self-aware. The first of her kind to go in public undetected; an experiment. Hyper-realistic and emotionally-independent. Rukia is _always_ fifteen.

Ichigo only lived a single lifetime, but life had not been kind.

_Rukia_ is Ichigo's teenage crush at 14, his program compatible match at 27. Both times he lost his memories of her. They meet again at 39.

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* * *

**(-) 4745 days (14)**

"Wait!" Ichigo abruptly stops, this time, pulls on her hand to make her stop, they had been running for almost an hour, the small towns and shops and the buildings long past them. They are on a road overlooking the town, half of the sun on the other side of the globe by now and everything in dark honey-scarlet glow.

"Why are we running?" he asks breathlessly, bending over with his palms on his knees, "are there punks after you or something?" he didn't think the Kuchiki girl could attract any sort of high school indecency.

Rukia stops then turns to him, thoughtful for a moment, then she answers "oh, nothing really."

"What?!" Ichigo straightens, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. An unpaid toil doesn't go too well with him, "-then what hell you pulled me for?!"

"I thought your height could hide me well while I run." She answers gaily, a hint of smirk on her lips. The setting sun glinting off her hair and casting her elongated shadow on the ground. He's suddenly aware of how small she really is.

"No shit really. Why?" Ichigo is not at all an uncaring and unkind man, if someone or a big bully is bothering her then he would have to do a scare-fest to this bully –it adds to his "coolness" of course.

"Nothing," she insists and walks to the side of the steel road rails, bracing and pulling herself up, she sits on it. "It's just fun to experience, you know, escaping my bodyguards."

Oh, well. Shit. That's it. Ichigo's shoulders went slump, and sighs in a way that tells her he's disappointed. _So, it is that type of teenage angst_, he thinks sourly, putting his hands in his pockets, considering the absurdity of her situation. "Yeah, so I've got a princess here wanting to escape her life." He tells her dismissively, shaking his head.

Of course Rukia gets it, she stares at him and blinks twice, torn between laughing or correcting him, instead she says, "Oh? But that's not what I-"

"Well then, don't invite to go to an adventure with you or just go back to your castle and wallow in your silky bed or whatever." He continues.

"But I'm not a princess," she tells him quietly –half smiling, in another day, maybe she could laugh at the notion.

The post lamps behind him are already lit and the road ahead seems all right, but nevertheless, he still asks sincerely, "I think your absurd "run away" drama ends here, want me to walk you home?"

For a moment, there is uncomfortable silence.

"No, thank you, my bodyguards will find me here."

"Right. I have no time for a rich brat's woes." Ichigo drawls before turning on his heels and walking away, "sorry but go bother someone else."

So much for running and wasting time.

However, ten steps later, the Kuchiki girl yells at Ichigo.

"I thought it's just nice to break everyday routines once in a while!"

He glances back at her, eyebrows furrowed. There's something irritatingly suspicious by the way she smiles at him: slight and careful and her eyes are lit up and pointedly looking at him.

"What?" he yells back.

"It felt nice! Right?" he could see that she's somewhat smirking, "Right? Kurosaki?" she's definitely smirking. "And I'm not a brat!"

"What?" he yells again.

"I said! Break routines! Once in a while! I'm not a brat!"

Ichigo turns around and shakes his head. The student council president is pretty fucking weird.

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(but it did not end there, when he reached at least 50 steps, the Kuchiki girl yelled at him again:

"Oi! Kurosaki!"

"What?!"

"Where are you going? Your house is in the opposite direction!"

Ichigo stiffens, "What?!" the trees are around him, the road is definitely familiar, the town beneath –exactly like the view in Yuzu and Karin's room. _The hell-?_

"I just used a little bit of diverse navigation!" He hears the Kuchiki girl yell, "Sorry! But I'm not mistaken! I know! I checked the records! You think I'd run here thoughtless?"

It is -with absolute horror- that she is definitely correct. "Damn it!" he hisses and troops back begrudgingly in very fast strides, not meeting her eyes, shoulders hunched like a shy little boy and he wears a fierce scowl (that looked comical). And she, still perched on her uncomfortable sitting spot and happily swinging her legs and smirking at him, mercifully did not say anything else. _I still have to look cool_, he thinks.

But when he's 20 steps away, she yells again.

"Hey! Hey Kurosaki!"

"Argh! What now?!"

He hears a stifled, _horrifyingly_ _girly_ laugh.

"Thanks for delivering those New Year cards! I read all of them! Yes, even those inside the truck! I like the one with the cherry blossoms and bunnies the most!"

"Shut up!"

"Nice meeting you!"

"It's not!"

"What's '_not_'?"

"Argh! Just stop shouting! Don't bother me!"

They looked like, of course, a pair of idiots shouting at each other at 6 pm. The farthest thing from being cool, Ichigo concludes bitterly.

Ichigo thought there would be peace when she did not answer-

"I'm Rukia!"

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_1 of 3_


	13. cordate

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Warning:_ all_._

Theme: All.

_*hi! how r u? i feel like being sweet tonight... ;) :D_

**bittersweet**

XIV. cordate

_appleschan_

0

The bed is big and warm. The sunlight filters through the glass window. He smells coffee and toast. It -he thinks- is another glorious morning.

She wakes him up with little whispers of "it's morning. Get up, you idiot." And he would, no doubt, wake up to her on top of him wearing panties and is topless. He happens to be magically shirtless too. Then they'll have morning sex.

He isn't rich. He lives humbly. He rents one secluded apartment. He lives with Rukia peacefully.

They clean their home together every morning. He buys everything she needs, so she doesn't have to go out and wore herself out. They take baths together...to conserve water. Then he'll go out to work different jobs. He'll come home to a patiently waiting Rukia.

He's able to restore their previous routine and she's able to go through with it again.

The both of them are naked in a small, old and chipped claw foot bathtub.

Naked Ichigo is resting beneath naked Rukia and is sneaking kisses to her shoulders and neck but occasionally turns her head for a full-on, heated kiss.

Ichigo has his arms around her and is helping her scrub her fingers and arms. Rukia leans on his chest and hums quietly while lazily stroking his legs with her own.

"What's this?" He asks, showing her a very small cut in her left palm.

She shrugs it away. "It is nothing. From cooking."

Ichigo stops soaping her and tells her seriously, "you shouldn't be cooking then."

"Please do not over react." Rukia yawns and closes her eyes. This bath room has the biggest window -oddly so- so only the coolest wind could past through and tickle her skin.

She likes this place.

"I'm not. I mean it." But there goes Ichigo's voice interrupting her peace.

"Ichigo," Rukia turns to him sleepily. "I'll argue with you later."

This is carefree. This is quiet. This is peaceful. She likes this.

This is where the sun shines brightly and warmly but blindingly so -like Ichigo's hair. This is where winter isn't too cold or gloomy; she can watch the snow while it rains from their small balcony.

They live simply. Ichigo treats her extremely well -despite his overtly protectiveness bordering on annoyance. Yet she could not quite remember how she met him, because she had an accident, he says. But she doesn't mind. It will come back, she thinks.

_Ichigo_. When she woke up from the accident, it was Ichigo's fear-stricken face she saw first. And felt his bone-crushing hug and remembered the way his voice faltered when he asked her over and over again to repeat her name.

He never left her for the first twenty four hours. He told her everything. And for some reason, she believed him and went home with him.

She wants to stay like this always.

"Suit yourself. But you're not allowed in the kitchen anymore."

Rukia ignores him and naps in his chest.

The next thing she knows she's back in their bedroom and Ichigo is playing with her belly button, asking for sex.

"You were stroking my legs, I thought you were asking for it?"

100 days before 0

From the depths of the sickest minds and twisted imaginations, comes this store. Dingy, worn-out and simple. Nobody could guess the place can grant a remedy to an inconsolable heart.

Ichigo refuses to sit in one of the dirty, cheap couches provided for hospitality's sake. So he stands in the middle of the dim room, coat dripping wet and boots murky. He feels out of place.

He's not like the regular customers of this place -despite its dingy appearance. The elite society knows this place. Unlike them, he doesn't have much money; he doesn't have a stable job. But like them, he'll bet everything he has. _Everything_.

It's time for desperation.

No, wrong. It's time for the materialization of desperation.

The counter lacks the bell, the paper logs and all the normality of a store.

Just as when Ichigo begins to pace the room, the guy suddenly comes out from the door behind the counter.

"Hi!" He greets gleefully. "How are you? I feel like having sweets tonight." He winks and smiles at him broadly.

Ichigo looks at him. He expected differently. A gloomier one, not a happy blonde.

The guy stops, looks at him then makes a heart-shaped gesture and asks, "Lost someone?"

When Ichigo does not answer, the guy says quite impatiently, "Well?"

Ichigo blinks and takes out a picture of Rukia, the one where she's smiling. She rarely smiles, too. This is a picture. He hands it carefully to the guy.

"Can you?" Ichigo asks. The guy is known for things like _these_. He doesn't know how and he doesn't care.

The guy eyes him head to toe, "Can you pay?"

Ichigo nods slowly.

"Oh sure then!" The guy booms cheerfully and snatches the picture from him.

The guy looks at the picture and whispers, "of course, of course."

The mad undertone of his voice gives Ichigo some sort of misplaced hope and his chest swells with excitement. He takes out more. He takes out those that highlight all her beautiful features. He pours out all his photos of her, all angles, everything. He gives the guy her clothes and things. Ichigo wants the guy to make her perfect. He does not mind the bad effects.

He wants a doll that looks, acts and feels like her. He needs Rukia back.

100 days after 0

The doll is broken. The doll begins to hate him.

Rukia begins to hate him. Ichigo still loves her.

Rukia looks at herself from her reflection. She does not know what to make of this face. Or this body.

Behind her, this man who calls himself Ichigo looms closer to her. He loosely hugs her and kisses the side of her head.

There is confusion she sees in the face that belongs to her. He says they are more than friends and even touches her and kisses her whenever he pleases. She lets him because he said she's with him, that they are together intimately. And for some reason, she does not doubt him, she does not doubt his amber eyes.

He said she lost her memory.

Their first months together made her rediscover things he said she forgot...

Sometimes, she slips in and out of consciousness and sees memories foreign to her. It is her, she knows so. But they are what they are, memories, and she has no recollections of making them. She never tells him because he'll get angry.

The rain beats loudly outside his apartment and she couldn't see anything. She long gave up on why Ichigo kept her inside most of the time. When she asked if they have friends, they do, Ichigo answered. But she never saw any of them.

Rukia does not understand the wounds on her body that don't heal, or the more days pass, the harder for her to walk. And that she prefers dark enclosures than seeing bright areas. Nothing in her body hurts anymore. She never tells Ichigo, because he'll get mad.

She's wearing his shirt, too large for her, it slips on one shoulder.

Ichigo kisses her shoulder softly and up to her neck. He notices the scratch on her neck, it stays permanently red but he does not comment on it. He'll just keep it clean, he thinks.

Ichigo can live with anything.

For the past six -almost seven- months with her, he tries his best to make her comfortable.

For the first three months, she lived with him with the vibrancy of the Rukia before the tragedy. She slept with him, he cooked for the both of them. They took baths together. He bought her dresses. They were happy in their little home.

But lately, Ichigo notices that she begins to withdraw from him. Exactly what the guy warned him.

The guy warned him that she'll eventually start to die or wither again and hate him for it.

True. Rukia refuses his advances, refuses to sleep or even cuddle with him.

Ichigo ignores it. What matters is that she's with him.

Ichigo looks at Rukia through their reflection and notices her expression. He hugs her tight but carefully as to not injure her. She just stays there limp and passive.

"Hey,"

She turns to look at him, and Ichigo sees her eyes, he has a horrifying glimpse of what and where she should be; dead.

He swallows whatever lump is forming. "Kiss me."

Rukia looks down, not wanting to. However, Ichigo pushes her gently, "hey, I said kiss me."

She gives in and reaches for his face slowly, tiptoeing. Her thin fingers reach his face and she closes the gap between his moist lips and her dry lips. She closes her eyes and lightly brushes hers against his.

He's just watching her passively. He feels bad. But it's too late for it. If she dies again, he'll keep asking the guy to revive her using a doll.

She pulls away, but he holds her in place. "_One more_."

She hates him because she knows that he knows why she's withering and is not telling her.

The doll may hate him, but he'll keep her until he dies too.

She shakes her head in protest and struggles out of his grasp. But Ichigo leans down, hugs her tighter, chokes back tears, presses his cheek against hers and gently pleads, "_please_?"

**The End**


	14. pluviophile

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

_Warning:_ all_._

Theme: All.

**bittersweet**

XV. pluviophile

_appleschan_

He walks home with Rukia every day.

And they always both get weird as shit looks.

Middle age women think they're cute. Girls giggle and _cooo_ like a bunch of three-year olds. Boys look at her appreciatively but frown and glare at him. Ichigo glares back with twice as much force and poses with extra male bravado as if daring them to come close.

What a loser, each of these boys probably thought, because they aren't him, that lucky guy.

What a fucking loser, Ichigo thinks so too.

Because according to the general school populace and some of their friends, Rukia is...

...the daughter of an angel and a god with her beautiful legs and cute lone bang that hangs on her pretty face, and her super nice attitude is a plus too, oh Kuchiki-san, such an existential masterpiece, says Keigo.

...Kuchiki-san...is an amazing woman, isn't she? Pretty, strong, and smart...says Inoue.

... ... says Chad.

...she is adequate. But allow me to point out that I do not think exterior is a valid basis for personality. Why are you asking me this? Says Ishida.

They all share Keigo's thoughts; they all worship her. Idiots. What a bunch of idiots.

Yet.

Ichigo shares a large part of his classmates' opinion of her, but grave first, before admission.

The Kurosaki Wall, most of his schoolmates and high school gangster like to call him. Because to peak under Kuchiki-san's skirt, they have to _endure_ him. Literally. Most cases are hopeless, needless to say, because after he says, "just try, you little shit" the world will surely end for the hopeful admirer.

Every time after the bell rings, he and Rukia would be out the door, and out the gate then down to the usual way home -barely saying goodbye to their friends. She would be carrying her usual things, bag, the usual paraphernalia -with an additional, separate bag that belongs to someone else that she refuses to leave home. Ichigo does not question her about it, and does not offer to carry it for her and it's probably the last time she'll carry it.

As he walks beside her -in quiet, rhythmic steps- along the usual string of colorful local shops in their path, he feels the familiar stupid wispy flutters of butterflies in his stomach -which, of course, became regular tenants.

He actually wants to burn them, or pluck off all their little wings one by one. Because fuck, he _more_ than likes Kuchiki-san. Annoyingly so, disturbingly so, frustratingly so.

"Hey, pipsqueak."

He hears no answer, but he keeps his gaze forward. It makes him look kinda cool. "Pipsqueak."

Still, he hears no answer. "What the hell?"

He turns around and sees Rukia a few steps behind him in front of a stuffed toy store. He closes his eyes and wishes what he just witnessed would go away. "Holy fuck no." He wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near a stuff toy store with a cute girl.

He won't buy her anything and hopes she won't ask for anything like all those colorful girls _aww_-ing at some cute stuff in the store.

She doesn't say anything when he stands next to her. She only points to a blue stuffed toy holding a stuffed trident.

"It looks unusual, don't you think?" She smiles up to him, and Ichigo looks down at her then looks away just as quickly when he detects the fake, poorly disguised mirth in her face. Instead, he glares deeply at the offending toy and tows her away, muttering about uncreative makers and inappropriate toys.

Within minutes, they continue their silent walk home. Rukia hums slightly. Ichigo, a few paces ahead of her, fidgets. Ichigo thinks he hears Rukia grunt and stops walking to let her rest when he hears her audibly grunt again. When he hears her walking again, he resumes his pace ahead of her. And with it, the silence.

Some days, they talk, more often, they don't. But at times, he attempts to talk to her anything about everything. More often than not, she answers. Thankfully.

"Why do you always come with me? Find your own way, why don't you?" He says, trying to sound irritated and bored at the same time. He hopes, he really hopes she'll answer.

They both reach the last turn before his house when they both stop walking. Rukia is closely following him, hunching over her extra baggage.

"I cannot. _This_ is my way." She stresses firmly, blowing a sigh and tucking her bang behind her ear.

"I don't care."

"Don't be silly, Ichigo. Of course I'll walk with you." Then she walks ahead him, Ichigo catches up to walk beside her this time. His house is still a few blocks away.

It is spring when he learned that Rukia isn't a flower-person. But she likes the weather, he thinks. If they aren't in a hurry, they would usually sit in a tree and read a book –or nap. He naps most of the time while she reads.

They walk together numerous times during the summer -because of unavoidable school activities. Every time Rukia complains about the heat, he just casually smirks and buys her a cold drink to shut her up while he savors the heat in his back, in his arms, he kinda likes the warmth. Even now, she still hates it and dreads its return. Rukia thinks he's weird for liking it.

Autumn when she thinks it is her job to step on each, crunchy leaf she sees. And he thinks it is his job to let her enjoy. So he usually sits nearby, and waits for to finish torturing each leaf. Whenever she finds bunnies, she cuddles with them until he pries her away from them. But she always argues back fiercely, and will only stop if he promises her to come back the next day.

It is winter when she plays like a child the most; she creates snow angels all the time and draws his grumpy face on them. This is when he sees her extremely happy and carefree. Last winter, he bought her a pair of fluffy ear muffs, because he thought she looked cute and at one point, he asked for winter to never end.

It has been a year since they started walking home together.

"You should really find alternative route to your boyfriend's house."

He says finally. His heart clenches.

His fist clenches beneath his pocket, to where his phone is. Why did he say that? He wonders.

Rukia has a boyfriend that she takes care off every after class. The boy had an accident that left him in a vegetative state. The extra things she carries all the time are all his school notes and she insists on updating them so when he finally wakes up, he won't be far too behind.

Ichigo takes care of her in his absence.

Sometimes when they walk home together, he knows everybody expects him to hold her hand or buy her some ice cream that she could lap with her small pink tongue while they walk.

But he doesn't, because it's not his job. It's _his_ job.

"Ichigo, that makes no sense. You and Kaien live in the same house."

Ichigo walks her to him every time after school hours. He hears her talk about him to Kaien because she reads in a medical book that continued interaction is -in some cases- helpful. She falls asleep beside his beeping machine and Ichigo has no choice but to carry her to one of the rooms in his house or bring her back to her home right in the middle of the night and explain to her scary brother.

He brings her food and sometimes, he joins her when it isn't too painful for him.

She doesn't cry much but when she does, he hears it clearly in his room. It is when he finds himself in front of Kaien's room -hers- and debates heavily whether to enter or not. And if he does, what would he do?

When Kaien wakes up, he'll probably punch him for doing this to him, and most importantly, to her.

It is not too long when their footsteps stop and he hears his family and their exceptionally loud and cheery dinner bouts. Tonight is different. He's home and they're home.

But before he could put one foot forward, Rukia suddenly takes his hand, grasps it firmly before opening the door and pulling him inside.

He thinks it's the first time she has done it.

Fitting because it's the last time they will walk home together, he got a message from his father that Kaien had woken up.

**The End**

something lighter to balance the heavier themes of this chapter's predecessors.

edit: oops. chapter initially deleted. sorry. weird syncing problems.


	15. verona

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Warning: all. ooc.

Theme: all.

**bittersweet**

xvi. verona

_appleschan_

He keeps himself busy, because on quiet days, he hears his conscience.

In lights and sound and hassle of the present, he drowns the past. He hates retrospection. Kuchiki Byakuya hates retrospection.

But how could he not remember the past? When its very product lay very still in his office, huffing evenly. How could he not? When the letters his sister and the boy wrote to one another -sent and unsent, read and unread- sit atop his desk, neatly stacked and rolled. How can he not? When the memory of it still lingers like an uncured, worsening, terminal disease that consumes him every day.

Perhaps, he should have burned the letters.

Burn them and watch as the boy's poetic endeavor towards his sister turn to ash and be gone in the wind.

5 years ago, his sister, Rukia, is the brightest, the heiress, the future of the family -then she met a boy, a _Kurosaki_.

There was change in Rukia, there was a palpable change in the clan princess they raised in very strict Kuchiki customs. The gleam in her eyes, the slight blush she tried so hard to hide when teased by her maids, her vocal and stubborn reluctance to be engaged. Her disinterest in running the family.

Byakuya became deathly angry at the boy.

The boy did not come from a poor family but Byakuya wished he did, so he could have one less reason to hate him; the boy came from a rival family.

The boy, the Kurosaki boy with ridiculous hair, had always been the old-fashioned one. His sister was not.

Upon their discovery, the boy foregone modern communications and settled with writing simple letters to her.

The boy started it and asked Rukia's personal maid to bring her his letters and hers to him.

Letters of which, lay before Byakuya, on his desk.

The boy, despite being crass and crude beyond comprehension, was surprisingly adept in waxing poetic lines. Lines -Byakuya suspected- he developed from reading plays. This, he -again- suspected was the reason why Rukia became suddenly interested reading a famous Englishman's works.

There were things he discovered about his sister when reading her letters to him. She always wrote in three sets, the first one contained her activities -daily mundane activities. His sister wrote letters crudely. Her education -no use. She wrote whatever she wanted, not caring of the phrasing because there was no one to read her works -just him, no prying eyes to critique her, she felt free. And the vibrancy she never showed when around the nobles radiated through her letters for him. She was warmer, alive.

Her second set was comprised of her warnings. She told him to never use the second back gate when sneaking because it is where he -Byakuya- walks routinely at night before bedtime. She warned him about his behavior around the nobles, once she asked him to not talk back. The boy did though -it was an argument against him, of all people. It was the night the boy made his intentions clear.

Her third set was the one Byakuya wished never existed. The last one contained all her fears and aches she successfully hid in the first and second sets. The emotion burned, her sadness flowed. She feared for their future. And it was clear to Byakuya how much living with this family took from her. She wrote slower this time, careful with frequent cross-outs. Because, at times, she was clueless on how to phrase the incessant ache that kills her slowly.

The boy only wrote one letter for her every time. But in his letters, his presence was always evident, pulsating and breathing -like he's there. He offered none of the common comforting words most people use, he never promised her that things will be all right, he never advised what to do, he never spoke ill of anyone, and he never complained of their situation. What he offered, was his presence. And that he'll never leave her.

This progressed to more and more until they became bolder.

What Byakuya hated the most, was the night his sister went to see him.

He read about the letter that detailed this night, this letter challenged his facade, his control. He could lash out, he wanted to, at the boy. He dared. The boy touched his sister.

After that night, he locked his sister in the manor and he intercepted their communication; he kept their letters, hired people to forge it and ultimately prevented them from seeing each other.

He felt no guilt, it was for everyone, for Hisana, for their clan. The two did not end up together, he did what was right - _he_ _thought_.

"Bya-chan..." A jumble of violet clothes stir, the huffing no longer even.

Little hands shot out of the violet jumble and struggle to free itself from the fabric mess. "I don't like this dress, Bya-chan!" Finally, the small hands succeed in turning over all the fabric and reveal a small girl with black hair.

One amber eye opens and peers up at him, one small fist still rubbing her other eye.

In a mock-stern voice, he says, "this is not a dress, you asked for your blanket, do you not remember?" He stands and walks to where she sprawls, and kneels beside her.

A part of his office has been converted to a playroom, because the child likes to spend time with him, or watch him work. Or at times, attach herself to his leg while asking him all sorts of questions.

The small girl shakes her head, "no, Bya-chan."

Still in that tone, he tells her, "I told you to call me uncle."

"Daddy says I can call you Bya-chan!"

His niece, four years old and _motherless_, stares up at him.

Her face, a perfect replica of his sister, is angled to him. Cheeks puffed. The one feature got from her father, amber eyes, bright and innocent, look at him piercingly, her voice –squeaky.

He gently tucks one stubborn bang off her face. "No, you may not."

"_Bya -chan_." She says stubbornly.

"_Uncle_." He says firmly, mirroring her.

She shakes her head and smiles wide, "Please?"

"I will think about it."

"Think now, daddy is arriving soon!" She demands -wails, and tugs on his suit. His niece has too much Kurosaki in her, despite growing up in the Kuchiki household.

Byakuya lifts her and she feels comfortable enough to rest her little head on her uncle's shoulder.

Byakuya never had a child, there was no heir to him, only this little girl who would soon part from him; he raised her since her birth.

He raised her different from his sister.

For the first time, he lifted the strict rules in his estate, he limited her studies to one each day, he told all her tutors to let her play and enjoy.

Everybody in his estate knows her as his sister's daughter with the Kurosaki boy. They all thought he raised her differently because of the other half of her heritage but he did so, because in the future, in case a repeat of his sister and the boy's story -her parents- happens to her, he will not have to read a replica of his sister's third set of letter.

Those who don't know think she is Byakuya's daughter, and that, "what a lovely little girl, deeply loved and smothered with all the pleasant things."

But she is Kurosaki by name and right.

And the boy is coming to get her.

And that he would have to give her up.

_Now_.

Byakuya hears loud footsteps outside his slightly ajar oak doors, ruckus-causing and heavy.

The boy has arrived.

Unconsciously, he pats her head and lightly kissed her on the forehead. The little girl looks at him questioningly and he gives her a very rare smile and mutters, "be good."

He knows Kurosaki won't waste time, and take her away immediately. Because after all, it was he -Byakuya- who took Rukia away from him, and in the process, their daughter. And in the end, it is him who will be left with no one.

"Let me in." Byakuya hears Kurosaki calmly orders someone at the door.

Byakuya closes his eyes and remains facing the windows instead of the doorway, while his niece perks up at hearing her father's voice and looks behind his shoulder in anticipation.

The door opens and Kurosaki steps inside.

"Daddy!"

His niece jumps off and runs to her father giggling.

Tilting his form slightly to the side, his views the scene before him. His niece, a graceful blur of violet, runs to her father. He sees Kurosaki drops to his knees and catches her. He does not bother to look further, he hears Kurosaki quietly asks questions and his niece answers excitedly, giggling and squealing.

Byakuya looks away.

A few minutes after, he feels a tug in his legs and sees his niece smiling, "I will miss you, uncle!" Byakuya crouches down, and she lightly kisses his cheek.

She pulls away and puts one hand on her hip and holds one finger in front of him, as if berating him. "Don't cry, k?"

Byakuya nods stiffly.

Then the girl runs to her father again, tugs on his leg so he could bend and she could whisper something in his ear. In which he nods, the girl smiles brightly, finally waves at Byakuya then runs out of the door.

When his daughter is out of sight and the door closes softly, Kurosaki places his very glacial glare on him.

Byakuya knows his glare has a backing of five years to it; it resulted from an event none of them wanted to happen. But it was he -Byakuya- that ultimately led to it, so, in every essence, under any logical reasoning, he deserves that glare.

Kurosaki Ichigo now stands with confidence. The errant boy from five years ago is no more, who stands in front of him is a man stripped raw emotionally, reserved -just like him.

Now, he wonders, who would speak first?

To speak first...

"Kurosaki." Byakuya says.

"Byakuya."

To speak first, in itself, is admission of defeat, but he's not fighting anymore, and he's tired. Tired, tired, and his niece is a brutal reminder of what he lost.

He spoke first, yet, they have nothing pleasant to talk about. Not Rukia, not his niece. Not the years he spent making them apart. Not the letters he hired professionals to forged that led to her death -all for keeping them away.

Five years ago, he created false dreams, false words, and false plans. Slowly, Byakuya made them believe they were drifting apart.

But the boy refused to believe in his manipulations. So he gave him fabricated evidence that his sister is far away and living contently. His forged letters led the boy to believe that Rukia gave up on them and that she believed her set of letters were because of teenage foolishness.

While this scheme was going, Rukia -in isolation- discovered she's pregnant. His sister never knew that all their letters were intercepted and replaced.

On her final days, she desperately waited for his reply. On her final hours, she read his reply -his growing disinterest in her. On her final minutes, she remembered the words he never wrote. On her final seconds, she believed the words he never said. She died from childbirth.

Byakuya, during this time, was the busiest. His conscience, however, screamed at him relentlessly.

Then years after the fake and unanswered letters finally delivered its intended effects, Byakuya heard the boy got completely different, a very far cry from the poetic, foolish, abrasive teenage boy that he initially met. He became abhorrent to women and toyed with them.

Byakuya considered not telling him about his daughter then.

_Never_. Such a foolish man he had become. He would never entrust Rukia's daughter to a man who regularly toys with women -but then, he created this man.

This would stayed safely as a secret had his niece never found her father _broken_ in front of her mother's tombstone one year ago, gently asking him who he was.

_"Are you praying for my mother_?"

Kurosaki never knew Rukia died and that they have a daughter. The look on his face when he first saw his daughter, the way his hands quivered reaching for her face because she looked so much like Rukia, or when his voice faltered trying to introduce himself, because he doesn't know.

Byakuya witnessed everything and he knew by then that he will have to give his niece up.

The broken man in front of her tombstone a year ago now stands in front of him.

And they have absolutely nothing to talk about.

Kurosaki could walk out, but he doesn't.

When Byakuya hears his niece giggling loudly with her grandfather and aunts outside, he finally tells Ichigo."I believe this is yours."

Byakuya says and does nothing to point out what he meant yet Ichigo understands it fully.

Byakuya thinks the boy knows he's going to give her letters to him –that, or he's going to take it forcefully.

Ichigo takes one of Rukia's letters that he never got to read. It's yellowed, sallow and has stains. It is dated 5 years ago. Her last letter. The letter that should have informed him of their daughter and tryst.

Ichigo takes all the letters wordlessly with practiced finesse. But Byakuya could clearly hear the roaring anger inside him, the screams of the boy he robbed of future five years ago.

Piercing and violent and he wonders, when did the boy learn such control?

"That's a fucked up way of saying sorry," Ichigo says, voice hard and evenly controlled like he's forcing himself not to say anything more.

Byakuya answers nothing. In a way, _this_ is his apology.

Ichigo turns his back from him and walks slowly towards the door.

The fiery boy from years ago would storm off angrily, stomping all the way out. Now he poses with rugged grace, his glares are no longer feral and uncouth, but sharp and accusatory and brimming with contained anger.

"I'm not accepting it." The boy -_the man_\- says before turning the door knob.

Ichigo says nothing more.

The door closes quietly.

Byakuya sits in silence; he never regretted anything more than this.

_It won't bring her back._

"Of course."

**The End**


	16. blank for p3

ch blank for p-3


	17. victor (1)

a/n: i didn't really want to write angst, i want to work on something else instead, but i reside in heartbreak and slice of life, i had to give something.

warning: 686 lol

i forgone some explanations because i didn't know how to apply logic in that last ch; nothing to justify the entire events of 686. all i learned was that ori's big boobs can defy destiny but they're not big enough to cover plot holes - hnn, such things can't earn my tears, but i feel for the destroyed characters.

here are 15 bs chapters reserved for that ending.

credits: joterry, the decemberist, sequencefairy, pablo neruda

**bittersweet**

xvii. victor

i.

by appleschan

* * *

Rukia handwrites letters for Ichigo.

Even if she's busy, out for a mission, or during a day off, or even when the day is only a few hours old - dusty gray and blue fighting over for the sky and the last of fireflies retreating into the forest - regardless, she'll find time.

At most, she writes to him four times a month, enough to include all the recent happenings in Soul Society; she tells him little bits of nothings and everythings.

_Ichigo_, her letters would always begin.

But she doesn't want to be presumptuous - limits are now in place and she doesn't want to overstep an unspoken, fragile truce, so she doesn't put _dear_ before the name.

After his name, she would pause, think of the next lines, pause , smoothen the paper's creases and dust it, pause , then think of starting easy and casual.

She tells him things he might or might not care about; a mix of menial, ordinary, random and important events such as when Bonnie-chan the Shibas' boar (which actually survived the war) gave birth to 23 piglets and one was gifted to her out of bad humor and one for her brother, when a human contraption called motorcycle became revolutionary transportation means, when the piglets received their own mud pond and garden in the Kuchiki estate, when the last time Ukitake- taichou and she shared a free afternoon and a pot of jasmine tea was on her birthday and he wished her happiness, when Ichika was born.

Rukia tells him of her captaincy and how there are too many brats in her division nowadays, and how his scowl became a trend and everybody wants to bleach their hair. On weekends, they stir so much trouble for her, and how she misses talking to her captain.

Then: she tells him how very, very sorry she is for Renji, that Ichika is growing too fast and likes to pick fights for her young age, her brother, still clan head and ever strong.

She tells Ichigo that 9 years after the war, her bottom drawers overflow with unsent letters for him.

It isn't a secret, but it isn't an open knowledge either - and it's something that Renji respects and guards very well.

Rukia knows he knows who she's writing to, but he keeps quiet about it. Their daughter, when she isn't out causing troubles, would curl on her lap while she writes letters for Ichigo and try to read the lines.

If Ichika falls asleep on her lap, Renji, if he's near, would carefully whisk her away. He's wordless and turns away quick, almost apologetically as if he stumbled onto a terrible, intimate secret. _There is this part of your heart I don't own, I know I can't trespass,_ he almost told her one day, and she almost apologized - she never did, but she thought of the thousands other things she needs to apologize to Renji for.

Still, Rukia likes to believe her heart is equally divided to its occupants. There's a part for her brother, for her husband, for her daughter, and for some memories she would like to safekeep.

Rukia keeps her letters folded and stacked neatly in the bottom three drawers of her desk inside her room, under lock and key and kido .

She never sends them to Ichigo, these half-wish, half-regret, half-dreams, half-secret, half-hope, whole truths and never lies remain untouched inside her drawers - these letters are quiet little deaths, necessary casualties for happiness.

_Ichigo_, her letter would begin, _I do not know what war you have won, or if you have won at all_.


	18. victor (2)

**bittersweet**

xvii. victor

ii.

by appleschan

* * *

This is no story of destiny.

Unlike Rukia, Ichigo does not write letters. He has nothing to tell because what needs to be said these days?

Life now is seamless for Ichigo, it follows this pattern unhampered: _on and on_, and on, and on, and on.

The next days come undifferentiated and so are nightfalls, along with the other next days and next years. Then 9 nine years flew by fast.

Ichigo never had much time to comprehend it all, how he's this and that, how he's a bit of everything, not quite human, not quite shinigami, not quite quincy, not quite hollow; how he could live in whatever void and it'll fit him just fine. He never had much practice for introspection anyway because life, as always, life , and death, got on the way.

The thought is always below his awareness, slightly out of reach, due to the fatal urgency of the various battles that beat at him; it's of little concern when worlds weight heavy.

When everyone has gone ahead, when there is no one who chases him, when he stops looking over his shoulder, when there's no one to catch up to, and when he can't wait anymore, then his heart stops beating impatiently.

Once then twice, there was a promise of destiny, vivid and proud and strong and unabashed it burns brighter than the sun, then, there were some things about promotions and for goods, too but the ground beneath him had not been solid all along.

It is not to say he is unhappy, but there is nothing to suggest he is otherwise. But Ichigo knows all too well, this is no story of destiny.


	19. victor (3)

**bittersweet**

xvii. victor

iii.

by appleschan

* * *

Ichigo asked Orihime if she'd like to be with him a year after the war. High school crush, how lovely, how equally tall and beautiful, how dreamy, others said.

_So in love_, she says shyly, if someone asks how they're doing. _It's good_, he says nonetheless - like clockwork, an instant follow-up reply.

Their first kiss happened on that celebrated February day. Months after. Spring bloomed fair. Summer was not endless. Autumn passed. Then came winter. Then on January, nearly a year later, Ichigo proposed to Orihime.

_It's fine, we can learn, we can be good together_, he tells the bright lights and blurred faces and lamp posts that ask him after his 9th _sake_ shot. He still do after 7 years of marriage and even after Kazui had been born and had not been a toddler for years.

.

.

.

In a nearby soccer field, a few blocks from where the Kurosaki house stood, Ichigo coaches a small group of school-age kids on how to play soccer whenever he's not running the clinic or on-duty in the hospital every Saturday afternoons.

Orihime, with Kazui in tow, comes around 5:50 pm, both waving at him from the other side and ready to come home.

Ichigo can vaguely make out blurry silhouettes of his wife and son against the setting sun. He raises his left hand in acknowledgement.

They went home together, Kazui is holding his mother's hand, and he lets them walk few paces ahead him.

* * *

i'm confused. what does 'salty' really means? is it like tears or something, i thought it means 'annoyed'...? (it must be me, i don't even understand half of my native language's slangs, like why is 'ganoon' spelled like 'ganern'...? is 'pak' supposed to be a slap...?)

vine, i'm giving it 15 chapters then i'll move on.


	20. victor (4)

**bittersweet**

xvii. victor

iv.

by appleschan

* * *

_Bleh_, Keigo thinks his friends, despite appearances and professional standings, are total fucking losers.

It's break hour at 2 am, and the hospital 8th floor break room is occupied by him, Ichigo, and Ishida, and some two other drowsy, caffeine-drunk OR nurses.

Keigo just finished collecting samples from gynecology, 5 floors down Dr. Kurosaki and Dr. Ishida's cardiology, but he makes excuses to visit them at their floor and invites them for morning ramen every time he could.

Keigo is now a medical technologist, having graduated after years of brutal and dehumanizing university experience, whereas these two now-physicians breezed through med school and did promisingly well in their kokushi.

The three work in the same hospital. Ishida hired him and Kurosaki with varying degrees of unpleasantness. There's only pity and amusement for Keigo, and for Ichigo, it's "_please, Kurosaki, I'll only hire you because I don't want you to blame me if your family starved because you couldn't find a job_" - not that Ishida will let that happen.

Then he follows that with a snarky, mocking question but has hints of true dubiety, "_what kind of hero works day jobs for a living?_" or "_more importantly, what does a hero do for a living at all? I don't suppose you have any other qualifications than hacking and slashing_" when he's feeling kinder, or don't say anything at all when he's feeling more ruthless.

Save for occasional quips and remarks, the two doctors hardly speak. Silence between them nowadays is more of a slayer, it carries a lot of unsaid matters. Ichigo doesn't need _those_ spoken to him, Ishida doesn't want to relive anything.

Dr. Ishida was not supposedly on duty, Dr. Kurosaki, meanwhile, demanded night rounds to avoid seeing Ishida's ugly mug, he said.

During days, the cardiology's floor is buzzing with patient and nurse chatters, there are happy visits and tender greetings and fresh get-well-soon daisies and reassuring smiles. There are warm sunshines that spill into the hallways.

At nights, however, the floor betrays like no other, there is a stark lack of movement, the hallways longer, the panels whiter, and lights brighter - too clinical and stilted and detached, and the beeps of specialized heart monitoring machines sounded loud and the smell of alcohol-doused cottons burned the most.

The three were huddled around a small, circular cramp white table made for fast talks and cups of coffee, white coats off. As for Keigo, he kept his scrubs. He's waiting

Keigo sits with Ichigo and Ishida hence, the 2 am coffee break, just as when the two finished their procedure. Ichigo said he would rather nap or file an incident report, Ishida, likewise, said he would rather go back to sleep.

Keigo sits with them to get them to speak more, even if he doesn't fully understand all that wars and things and deaths and changes and losses, and even if their friends don't really explain everything to them. He's not expecting any.

Ishida is so out of touch despite working near them, while, Ichigo, _well_, these are days when _Ichigo_ feels less like _Ichigo_.

Keigo, after all these years, just wants to remember what high school and rooftop lunch felt like.

"So, there's a girl I like..." Keigo shares morosely, thinking about some 'sweet, dank ass' heartbreaking pretty female nurse with impressive boobs over at proctology and one who was totally giving him the fuck-me signal for several weeks, but then outright rejected his date offer and said she was "only joking," and how false hopes hurt after a long run - hoping to get them to start talking, like the old days, or even just to get them to comment on his stupidity - that'd be preferable over the past few years of forced greetings and fractured friendship and Ishida perpetually avoiding them, "...and she _shat_ all over me."

Both Ichigo and Ishida stare blankly back at him, as if expecting nothing else.

"I thought it was real, you know? It was really, really real!" Keigo tries again, "that woman," he says, "keeps on giving me signals, bitch led me on."

"I'm sure you misinterpreted disgust, Asano," says Ishida un-empathically, "I wouldn't fault her for that."

"Hell no!" Keigo looks to him, indignant, "I felt it was real! I invested everything! This is heartbreak, do you know how that feels? motherfucking heartbreak?"

"Hmm, _do I know_?" Ishida muses for a moment, and hears only the soft whirs of various mech vents from the other rooms, then, "I don't of course, such triviality has no place in my mind. I'm busy," he drawls, impersonal and dispassionate, as if to patch something up, "very."

"Tch, of course not! You ain't even married!" But the words are out carelessly.

But Ishida, all cold and reserved, accepted it and says only, "yes, I am not."

"Proctology?" Ichigo says quietly suddenly, hunched over his coffee and twirling his pen, "she probably just realized you're shit too, that's why." But he doesn't look at Keigo or Ishida, "and why are we having this talk? I could be filing some incident reports instead."

Keigo sees Ishida's eyes slant Ichigo a cold, tired look.

(Keigo had heard a near-disaster occurred in OR earlier, some cardiac bypass graft procedure gone awry, but Dr. Ishida, brilliant and prodigious young surgeon who knows the very fibers of the atria and ventricles with inhumane accuracy, came down from his temporary residence - also within his hospital compound - and took the knife from Dr. Kurosaki, who, strangely, was less reluctant and more welcoming to hand him the procedure. Several nurses later swore they heard Dr. Ishida told the other, "_don't_." The rest of the argument had been quiet)

"Ahh! But that's too harsh, Ichigo!" Keigo wails, mock-gloomy, channeling his high-school antic - one that easily annoys any of his friends to earn him a punch or two, but Ichigo only glares at him.

He's far too young to be so old, Keigo thinks. Ichigo glares at him now with cold maturity and resignation.

Sometimes, he wonders if it was because their successes caught on to them early, that it is more of a curse to be so successful at such a young age with no more to strive for. Ichigo fought and won wars, became a doctor, then married Orihime-chan who popped out a kid.

Or is it that Ichigo is truly not cut-out for this kind of life? Doesn't he run with those supernatural punks in black garb carrying swords? Super fucking war freaks, they are. That's fucking cool and weird at the same time, he remembers thinking when he first found out.

And there's Kuchiki-san, too (is her name still Kuchiki?), weren't Ichigo and her set in stone?

Orihime-chan is beautiful to be fair, and was the star of his high school fantasies. Perverted quips aside, however, he never thought the two would resonate in some way.

Ishida, too, fought and won the same war, became a medical big shot and despite his high school disapproval of Ishida because he was such a big loser nerd and generally uncool, he hopes him the best, like he finds some blonde or redhead or whatever.

These two aren't well these days, in fact, had not been for nearly a decade, Keigo knows.


End file.
